Interrogation
by WinterWhirls
Summary: A suspect apprehension goes horribly wrong. Elliot/Olivia.


**Disclaimer: I own NOTHING. Zip. Nada. Rien.**

The car ride has been monotonous and uninspiring. The city is far behind them, the imposing city skyscrapers gone, and the heavy downtown traffic subtly dispersing until the occasional truck carrying a barrel of hay is the road's only occupant. Elliot stopped paying attention to the speed limit hours ago, and so they drive along the highway with a rapidity that would serve them with a horrible fine if there were any cops out here.

Despite the beautiful fall colours adorning the side of the road as trees bow their branches in a surreal canopy of red, she finds her eyelids butting closed and her heavy head lulling against the headrest in tandem with the bumps in the asphalt. Her eyes slip closed in her exhausted state, and her mouth slides open, dragging her head to the side until it slips downward and hits the side of the door, jerking her back to consciousness with a sharp gasp.

Beside her, Elliot throws a glance her way and chuckles under his breath. "Am I boring you?" he asks, reaching over to shake her thigh.

"What?" she blinks.

"You're falling asleep."

She gins sloppily, returning her gaze to the colourful autumn countryside. She's only gotten a grand total of five hours of sleep in the last twenty four hours, the whole squad frantically working a case involving a very reluctant victim and a suspect due to hop on a plane to Brazil within the day.

The case is extremely confidential, high priority, the Feds and IAB all mixed up into it until no one is allowed to say anything to anyone without facing jail time.

She and Elliot were dispatched to pick him up at his grand summer home about three hours out of the city.

"Coffee break?" Elliot asks, as they pass by a sign for a small town five miles down a road to the left of the highway.

"Nah. Let's just get there," she yawns, resting her head against the headrest, willing herself to stay awake.

"Too late anyway," he sighs, as they pass the exit road. "Hey, you can sleep, you know. I'm not going to leave you in the car while I go take him down myself."

"S'okay. I'm not sleeping if you aren't." After all, they've worked the same hours this week and she would just be taunting him with what he can't have if she were to sleep during the drive. Especially since he's only driving because she hates being at the wheel of a car.

He rolls his eyes. "Your choice."

* * *

><p>"Liv," he calls, and through her foggy brain the sound of his voice is distant and partially erased by the remnants of a dream she can't remember swimming around in her mind. "Olivia," he shakes her shoulder.<p>

She opens her sandpaper eyes, lifting her head from the side of the hard sedan door, noticing an errant crick in her neck as she does so.

"Time to go." Elliot's disproportioned face swims awkwardly in her slightly blurry vision.

"The fuck?" she mutters, and glances out the window. "Are we here?"

"Yep. Knew you wouldn't hold out," he says, as he lifts himself out of the car.

She unbuckles her seatbelt and pushes open her door, stepping out onto the perfectly green, freshly mowed lawn. Despite the fall season, there isn't a single leaf on the ground, recent rake marks clearly visible all about the enormous property. The summerhouse is down the hill from where they're parked; it's enormous pristine glass windows overlooking the property and the body of water beyond it. The house is absolutely gorgeous, and her jaw nearly drops at the sight of it.

"Maybe as a retirement present," Elliot jokes as he walks around the car and starts down the hill with her in step.

As they approach, the house only seems to get bigger, and she is overtaken by it's imposing height and it's grandeur. It looks like something straight out of a magazine for home decorating, the type of house she never sees in reality.

Suddenly, Elliot reaches out and hand and grips her wrist, urging her to stop walking. She looks at him, questioning, but he signals for her to be quiet and jerks his head in the direction of the large garage that is bigger than most of the houses back in the city. Sure enough, after a moment of listening in intense silence, voices drift to her ears. They aren't loud enough for her to discern what they're saying, but she can hear tones and pitches and just by those she knows that the mood over there is tense and agitated.

"Breker?" she whispers, asking Elliot if he thinks it's their suspected rapist.

He shrugs. "Let's check it out."

They fall into quick step, and she draws her gun from her belt and holds it out in front of her. Elliot unhooks his as well, jogging lightly beside her. The garage comes nearer, and so do the voices, and she can tell now that there's three, maybe four men talking animatedly in there. Together they hit the side of the garage, the smooth brown paneling flat against her back as they creep stealthily along the wall to the front of the garage. They near the corner separating them from the strangers and she grabs the back of Elliot's coat. When he turns, she mouths at him to take it professionally. She's worried that if they go all out on these people, the outcome will not be good. _Be civil_, she tells him. Elliot nods and rolls his eyes in a _Don't teach your grandmother how to suck eggs _motion. She sighs, but lets his jacket go.

They round the corner, and Elliot's voice is efficient, but firm and cold. "Nobody moves." She steps out around the corner right after him, coming to join him at his side.

"PUT DOWN THE GUNS!" A man in a black trench coat yells, his voice loud and brusque, his face red. "PUT THEM DOWN, _NOW_!"

Elliot yells, "Police! Hands in the air -,"

"HANDS IN THE AIR! DROP YOU WEAPONS!" The stranger's voice is booming.

Her mouth opens of it's own accord, "Do _not _move! -,"

The man in the black trench coat brandishes his gun a points it at them harshly, his face screwed in anger, and another man wearing dark sunglasses and a beige jacket turns around to face them with a BFG in his hand, and he disengages the safety. "SHUT UP AND DON'T FUCKING MOVE."

Elliot, in the process of charging toward the first man, freezes in his tracks. She feels her heart jump into her throat and her pulse relocated to her ears, because that is a big fucking gun and it's pointed right at her chest.

She tears her eyes away from the deadly machine and locks her vision on Elliot, who slowly turns his head to stare at her with intense blue eyes. She silently wills him not to do anything stupid.

But it is there, in his eyes, the resignation and the fear. His eyes tell her that he isn't going to fight, because they'll certainly get mowed down if they try for it. Simultaneously, they drop their guns to the cement floor of the spacious garage with metallic clanks.

"Kick them to me," says the man in the sunglasses, coldly.

Neither one of them moves, too weary of making a mistake, of setting one of the men off somehow.

"KICK THEM TO ME!" He roars, giving the gun a shake.

They step forward and kick their guns, the black metal skidding in a curve because of the unbalance in weight, until it passes the men. Olivia's disappears under a Porsche, and Elliot's hits the wall, rebounding away from them.

"Get on the ground," The one in the black trench coat orders, gesturing with his handgun.

Reluctantly Olivia lowers herself to her elbows, in a push-up position. She watches out of the corner of her eye as Elliot does the same, his elbow pressing sharply but comfortingly into her ribs.

The man with the smaller gun steps forward and grabs her hands, yanking them out in front of her. Her chest hits the cement abruptly, the air knocked out of her lungs and a sharp pain appearing in her spine. Suddenly there are handcuffs tight around her wrists, and the man steps over her outstretched hands to repeat the process to Elliot.

"Who are you." It is not a question, but an order. The man moves back to stand in front of them, and he holds the gun menacingly close to their faces. Her heart pounds, her breath rapid. She leans into Elliot.

"NYPD," Elliot says, and despite the fear she knows he feels, his voice is strong and clear. She admires his bravery. "Who the hell are you." Elliot doesn't ask _questions _either. Don't bait them, Elliot, she wants to scream in his ear.

"From the WPP. We're here to escort Mr. Breker to the airport." He gestures to the corner of the garage. "Hans. You can come out now." Breker, their strongly suspected suspect, rises hesitantly from the dark, camouflaged corner of the garage. What the hell does their suspect have to do with the Witness Protection Program?

"What's going on?" she asks, glaring at the agent.

"That does not concern you. We will be asking the questions. And you will cooperate."

"Like hell," Elliot grumbles gruffly, a sarcastic chuckle escaping under his breath.

The man in the black trench coat stalks over and stares at Elliot through narrowed eyes for a dissonant moment before delivering a strong kick to the side of Elliot's torso. "You _will_."

Elliot grunts and his breathing quickens, but otherwise he refuses to show any emotion. Olivia's blood boils at the agent's violence. "You can't do that!" she growls, fierce to defend Elliot's safety.

"I will, darling, until you tell us what you're doing here."

"We can't discuss it." IAB will have their asses if they talk about a case like this. They would be facing jail time and their squad would be suspended if they talked. Not to mention the trauma that publicity would bring to the victim.

The agent narrows his eyes, and then nods his head to the other agent, the one holding the impressive gun. "You stay here with him. I'm taking her out back."

"What?" Elliot growls, trying to sit up, having a hard time with the cuffs. "What are you doing?"

"We need information. We're going to get it." He steps behind Olivia, grabbing her around the biceps and hauling her to her feet. He grips her cuffed wrists and turns her roughly around, marching her back around the corner of the garage.

"Liv!" Elliot yells, struggling against his cuffs, writhing on the cement floor.

* * *

><p>"This is illegal," Elliot growls, as the remaining agent sits him up and leans him against the garage wall. "I'm gonna fucking nail your ass when we get back to the city."<p>

"Acutally," the agent replies, his gun still trained on Elliot's chest, "The law states that we can do whatever the fuck we want if we think that our witness is in danger."

Elliot motions to his gun, several feet away, and then to his cuffed hands. "Oh, yeah, we're a terrible threat."

"You would have been, had we not been here. You came charging in with guns. And now we need information on how the fuck you found him and how the fuck you knew who he was."

Elliot glares. "What are you doing with my partner," he growls, menacingly.

"It's obvious you aren't giving up information. So, we're going to play a little game to see who cracks first. And then, you're coming back to our station."

Elliot tries to breathe deeply, inhaling though his nose. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the cement wall. His fingers twitch with the need to know that his partner is okay.

From somewhere behind the back wall of the garage, and echoing groan floats loudly to his ears. He knows her voice; he knows that she's in pain. He starts to fight against the cuffs. "Olivia!" Fear bubbles up in every corner of his body, powerful and incredible, filling him with adrenaline. His muscles burn with the urge to help her. "Fuck!"

There is a crash, and then she screams, the shrill sound of her anguish sharply cut off, followed by a loud thumping noise. Elliot's head pounds, his breathing erratic. "Olivia! Liv!" He can't think, he can't process, because his mind is consumed by panic, by the all-consuming fear gripping his body. He needs to help his partner. He needs to help Olivia.

"How did you locate Hans Breker?" The agent with the threatening gun asks in a cold, gravely voice.

Elliot's mind is in a panic, his sole thought being that his partner is in pain. His partner needs his help because someone bigger and stronger is making her suffer. "Fuck," he mumbles, thrashing against the cuffs. "Fuck, fuck, fuck…"

The agent speaks into his radio, "Not talking," he says, and there is a muffled acknowledgement in return.

A loud thud, and Olivia screams again.

* * *

><p>"Stop," she whispers, bent over on her hands and knees, a string of red saliva hanging from her mouth. "Stop." Her breathing is heavy, irregular, and the throbbing in her head is making her sick. Her arms tremble violently and threaten to buckle at any moment.<p>

"That's up to your partner," the man says softly, as if he's there to comfort her. But then his fist comes down hard on the back of her head – or maybe it's the butt of his gun? – and she drops flat on the ground, face in the cold dirt, a loud groan escaping, her head spinning.

The agent stands over her, one foot on either side of her body, and he grabs a handful of her brown hair in each hand, gripping tightly before yanking upwards. He bends her head back violently, stretching her neck muscles painfully, and her head spins so much she is well and truly frightened. When she feels the vomit sliding up her throat, she tries to warn him, tries to ask him to lower her back down so that she doesn't choke.

Too late, the vomit fills her mouth and she coughs, choking, before the agent drops her hair and her face falls forward. She soils the ground around herself, the vile taste in her mouth making her feel even sicker.

"Still no cooperation," comes a voice through the radio, and she thinks fuck, Elliot, fuck, fuck, fuck, just do something, do _anything _to stop this horrible beating.

The agent chuckles, and says something under his breath about Elliot being stubborn. He walks to the side of the garage and picks up the hose, turning it on. When he sprays her with it, the water is freezing, prickling her face and her torso, causing her teeth to chatter. He moves closer, the stream of water becoming more and more intense until he flips her over and holds the stream right above her face, the constant flow of freezing cold water preventing her from drawing breath. She is choking. She is screaming and chocking and coughing and there is nothing she can do about it because her hands are literally and metamorphically tied.

And then, through the radio, "Stop. He's going to talk."

And the water stops, and there is a pinching under her armpits as the agent hauls her up to her feet by her biceps.

"Time to go," he says with a grunt, and pushes her toward the front of the garage.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Two shot. Lemme know what you thought :)**


End file.
